


Second Verse, Same As The First

by Tyleet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hundred years on and a world away, and nothing much is really changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Verse, Same As The First

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the text in this story is drawn directly from several canon stories: _A Scandal in Bohemia_ , _The Final Problem_ , and _The Empty House._ The lines at the beginning are taken directly from _A Study in Pink._ The canon stuff has a distinctly 2009 flavor, but it could be read either way, I think.

  
“You are claiming you have never felt love. Not even the love of a dear relation, or a friend?”

“All emotions are abhorrent to a balanced mind, Watson. That one particularly.”

“But you cannot reject emotions completely. To do so would be—well, other than human.”

“Oh, they are admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for a trained reasoner like myself to admit such intrusions into his own finely adjusted temperament? Grit in a sensitive instrument could not be more disturbing than any strong emotion. As for my being other than human—well. It is not true that I do not feel, Watson, but rather that I must cast my feelings out before they take hold. If I do not, all of my mental results would be cast into doubt. Do you understand me?”

*

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.”

“Oh, really? Do you have a boyfriend? Which is—fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“No.”

“Okay. You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good.”

“John. I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anyone—“

“No, no, not asking—no. I’m just, saying. It’s all fine.”

“Good. Thank you.”

*

There is a moment, very early on, when John Watson very nearly changes the entire course of their friendship. And Holmes very nearly lets him. It’s nothing extraordinary. They have shared rooms together for nearly six months, and have just finished a case which Holmes ought to have solved in twenty minutes. A half hour at the most.

Instead it took him three hours and a knife wound to solve, and all because he missed the painting of the albatross in the man’s study. Obvious. A stupid, careless mistake, one he cannot imagine himself making even a month ago.

He has his shirt off and Watson’s professional fingers stitching closed the shallow slash at the base of his neck when he remembers why.

He had been happy, this afternoon. Lestrade had summoned them directly from their lunch at Simpson’s, and the glow of pleasant conversation and good food had crept into the crime scene, had dulled his senses and caused him to focus on the abstract instead of what was before his eyes. He remembers Watson making a joke—something disparaging about the aesthetic movement—and his eyes slid right over the painting. Unforgiveable. Unpardonable. Every stab of Watson’s needle into his skin feels like recrimination. Something must be done.

“Even an inch to the right, Holmes, and you would have bled out,” Watson is saying, voice tight with disapproval.

“Inconsequential,” he says darkly. He deserves much worse. Watson finishes the last stitch, and gently cleans the surrounding skin with a damp cloth.

“It is of consequence to me,” Watson says simply.

What happens next is yet another sign that Holmes has lost control, as subtle as it is. Watson’s hands have been on him all this time, after all, and so when one slides down from the injury at his neck to rest lower down on Holmes’ back, Holmes might not be expected to notice. But he does, and of course Watson knew he would, all the attention in his body focused on the warm palm on the curve of his spine.

A wild uncertainty builds up in his throat, ready to turn into words. A slight tilt of his head and a flash of eye contact has Watson drawing his hand back at once, his slight smile fading away.

“My dear fellow,” Holmes manages, and does not continue because Watson knows him better than anyone. Is the first person to share rooms with him for longer than a fortnight at a time since he lived at home. Has already begun what looks like an amateur literary career as Holmes’ biographer and personal psychologist. Knows him well enough, at least, to cut him off before he is forced to explain in the same painful terms he had used with Irene that he could not, not with anyone, and never would, not while London needed his mind for its defense. Not while the game was still there to be played.

“Forgive me,” Watson says, too lightly, his gentleman’s mask slid effortlessly back on. “I forget, sometimes, your need for privacy.”

“It’s forgotten,” Holmes says, and Watson smiles again. It is a little wearier than before, but no less genuine. Watson means his words; he always does.

And if Holmes thinks, sometimes, of a warm pressure against his spine and a slow, hopeful look slanted through brown eyes, he can pass it off as fear, and nothing else.

*

“Forget about it,” John says flatly, in the middle of typing up what Sherlock presumes is a heavily censored account of tonight’s events. “Delete it, or erase it, or do whatever it is you do with information that won’t help you solve murders.”

“Murders are hardly my only purview, John, you know me better than that,” Sherlock says, fighting off a sneer.

John types doggedly at his laptop. “That is absolutely not the point, and you know that. Go away.”

“You’re attracted to me,” Sherlock accuses, and John hits the spacebar with unnecessary force.

“Look, do we have to talk about this? It’s a physical thing, it won’t happen again, and it’s not going to affect—anything.” They hadn’t talked about it as it was happening, except for John shutting his eyes in mortification. Sherlock had frozen, completely tense against the erection pressed against his leg, as a thousand small moments connected themselves in his mind: slight dilations in John’s pupils, here and there, the insistence on respecting his bedroom lock, the way he was always so careful not to touch Sherlock, even by accident, even his fingers. Sherlock breathed out. John inhaled shakily in response. Their bodies were forced so close together that Sherlock’s chest rose with John’s breath. And then the man with the gun passed into the next room, and Sherlock had mobilized enough to spring the coffin lid open and leap out in pursuit, John following.

They caught the criminal—a mortician who sold body parts from cancer victims to hospitals, and called Scotland Yard. Sherlock thought waiting until they were home to discuss the way John reacted to Sherlock’s body pressed flush against his in an enclosed space like an empty coffin had really shown remarkable restraint. If he’d known restraint would get him this cold, defensive John, he would have dragged the whole thing out in front of Donovan and Anderson.

“It affects everything,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Do you imagine that this was an isolated incident? That it wouldn’t happen again, if you were suitably provoked?” He takes a step forward to prove it, and relishes John’s tiny flinch.

“I don’t fancy you,” John snaps. He is a soldier. Backing down is not an option. Clumsy, Sherlock.

“That’s contrary to the facts,” he says, a frustrated edge creeping into his voice.

John exhales through his teeth. “I’m physically attracted to you, Sherlock. If we’re put into a situation like that again, I can’t promise I won’t _physically react,_ ” he shuts the laptop case, “but that doesn’t mean I want a relationship with you.”

Sherlock ignores the cold seeping into his stomach. “My observations on human relationships tell me that is untrue. Sexual attraction leads to romantic desire, which implies--”

“I also fancy Mycroft’s PA, but that doesn’t mean I want a relationship with her,” John shouts, then sighs. “Look, this isn’t new. It doesn’t change anything. You’re safe, all right?”

“Safe,” Sherlock repeats, dripping scorn. “From you? If you imagine you have the slightest ability to harm me, John, you are gravely mistaken.”

John stands up, and it’s suddenly clear that this isn’t his usual frustration with Sherlock’s eccentricities. He is very, very angry, and Sherlock hates it because he doesn’t know why. “Yeah, you’re safe. I’m not going to molest you, or inconvenience you, or ask you for anything, or whatever it is you’re afraid I’m going to do.”

“I’m not afraid of your desire,” Sherlock hisses, and John laughs nastily.

“Nope, of course you’re not. You’re fine. No intimacy issues at all. Here’s the thing about most humans, Sherlock—we might want to shag beautiful people, but we only want relationships with people we actually _like._ ” John catches his breath in the way he always does when he goes too far. He looks down, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Look. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Just. Forget about it. Please.”

Sherlock can’t say anything. After a moment John nods and walks to the stairs. His bedroom door locks with a click.

*

He almost doesn’t go, but in the end his desire to know—his unforgiving, inescapable, unpardonable need to see, no matter the cost—outweighs his distaste. He sits in the third row on the left side of the church, the last in a line of stiff postured men with the look of Afghanistan in the press of their suits and the shine of their shoes who had been Watson’s comrades in arms. The two rows before him are reserved for family—for Watson’s mother, frail, smiling, and most likely dying of consumption, if the way she keeps fingering her handkerchief is any indication. For his uncle, leaning too close to his wife on account of the three drams of whiskey he’d sneaked before leaving the house this morning, obvious, really, from the angle of his top hat. And then there is the wife, totally oblivious to the disgrace her husband will undoubtedly make of himself at the wedding breakfast. Or perhaps she just doesn’t care, smiling and vapid as she is. No, why should she have noticed? This is a _wedding_ , after all. She’s absorbed by the garlands decking the pews, by the smooth white candles and the plump sachet of rice in between her fingers, far too enthralled by the arrangement of ribbon and flowers to spot what’s right in front of her miserable nose. He hates her—and the flowers—and the slow beginning thrum of the church organ, the way it resonates in his body and lodges hollowly in his chest and becomes the sluggish pulse of his blood.

Everyone turns towards the back of the church, and there is no more time for distraction. Miss Mary Morstan is walking slowly over a flower strewn path somewhere over Holmes’ shoulder, so he forces himself to do what he came here to do, and slides his gaze to the altar.

Watson is not a complex man. Not to someone with the least piece of intelligence, anyway. To a fully functioning mind, he might even be called painfully transparent. To Holmes, who knows him so well, who has _memorized_ him, who could write biographies of Watson and case studies of Watson and never reveal half of what he knows—his grace and his courage and the way he takes his tea and the fear that leads him to the gambling room and the horror he has of spiders--to Holmes, John Watson’s face is as easily understood as the workings of his own heart.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Watson’s eyes, and reads embarrassment, uncertainty and something else. Anticipation. No, more than that. Fear. His left hand—the one that trembles, sometimes, when the rent is due or the stretch between cases has gone on too long and usually signifies a night in the gambling halls—is clenched into a fist by his side. Holmes wishes fiercely that Watson would look at him, if only so he could make that vibrating tension go away, kill it with bullets and deductions and worry like he always does. But he doesn’t look at Holmes, of course. He’s looking at the woman, who has just stepped up to him, is slowly unclenching his fist to take her hand.

Watson’s eyes soften in a way Holmes has never seen. The priest asks if anyone knows of any reason these two should not be joined in matrimony. A muscle in Watson’s jaw tightens, just slightly, and his hands wrap around Miss Morstan’s. Holmes remains silent, because no. There is not one reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony. Watson’s jaw does not loosen, and Holmes feels the anger licking at his ribcage again. Is it not enough, that he is here? Is it not enough that Miss Morstan is here—that he has not torn her into a thousand shreds of fear and hatred, has not broken her in twain for the unforgivable offense of loving his friend—it would have been easy.

_Watson will visit the Punch Bowl when you displease him, and at least twice you shall have to beg your former mistress for funds. The way you twist that curl behind your ear tells me about your first engagement. You loved him, you loved him more than John, that much is clear from the faint sprinkle of powder across your shoulder—you have been weeping, and recently. How intact is your virtue, Miss Morstan? When you were a girl, you broke your ankle walking to church in the snow—because of ice, you claimed, but we both know the truth, Miss Morstan. You were pushed, probably by someone you trusted, whom you wished to protect—was it your governess? Your sister? Your mother? What kind of mother will you be, with such an example? What children will you raise, poor, twisted woman that you are? Watson does not deserve that. Watson does not deserve you. If you care for him, Mary Morstan, disappear._

He has said nothing. Both bride and groom are alive at the altar. And Watson still does not trust him to be silent.

The priest has been speaking. Holmes did not plan on paying him any more attention, but Watson’s gaze flicks sharply towards the man, and the words slide back into Holmes’ hearing. _John Watson, will you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? To have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?_

There is no pause, but both of Watson’s hands are trembling, Holmes can see. “I will,” he says, and in the second before the priest pronounces them man and wife, before he says to kiss the bride, Watson’s head tilts just slightly away, scanning the room like the soldier he pretends he isn’t, and then his eyes meet Holmes’, and—oh.

It’s everything Holmes thought he would see. Sickness. Helpless fury. Guilt. God forgive him but he knows his man, and Watson could no more forsake all others than abandon London to live on the moon. _John_ , he thinks, the tightness in his chest unbearable, and he is going to speak, going to stand, Watson’s brother and friends and wife be damned. _John._

Watson breaks eye contact, because the priest has finished speaking, and turns his gaze back to his wife. The anger melts from his eyes. The muscles in his jaw finally soften. He tilts his face down to her, and a wave of nausea rolls over Holmes, because what he saw before is true. But no less true is what he sees right now. Never twist data to suit theories. Watson lied when he made his vow, yes. Perhaps he will always feel regret. But his lips on hers is not a lie, is nothing less than a perfect fact. The entire room can see it, and Holmes cannot deny it. His friend is happy.

The organ begins again, and the church rises. Holmes stays where he is. He knows Watson will not look to him again.

*

After a while it’s all Sherlock can think about. Which is ridiculous. John is hardly worth that much of his mental energies. John is unbearably predictable, after all—not just an open book, a book Sherlock has already finished, and knows by heart. If he were any other man, Sherlock could convince himself that this means John is unimportant, really is worth slightly less than his skull. Not a friend, just a colleague, as the man had said himself. No more intelligent than Anderson.

_Here’s the thing about humans, Sherlock—we might want to shag beautiful people, but we only want relationships with the people we actually like._

But Sherlock has been in the business of truth far too long to consider lying to himself. He is a jealous man, and John is important. He wants to eclipse everything in John’s eyes, wants those murmured exclamations of “brilliant!” and “amazing!” to be his, and no one else’s. But John is the first person whose company he’s been able to bear for more than twenty minutes at a time since Irene. John is curious, brave, and loyal. He knows how Sherlock takes his tea, and knows how to disinfect the oven before using it, and he complains about the shopping and the state of the kitchen and Sherlock’s wardrobe and Sherlock’s violin, and he types with two slow fingers, and he cares about stupid things like football and people’s lives and the solar system, and when he laughs, Sherlock wants to trace the creases around his eyes with a thumb.

He is _important_ , and Sherlock will not lose him, not over something as trivial as sex. John does not want him; that much is clear. Fine. Let John shag whomever he likes. Even if Sherlock has no idea what it is that lets John follow him to crime scenes and make toast for him and fall asleep on the sofa beside him but balks at sharing his bed. John was willing to die for him. But he doesn’t like him enough to form a sexual relationship. Even removing emotion from the problem, it makes no sense.

“You’re misunderstanding something,” Moriarty says, lilting voice made even more clownish by the crackle of technology. “He’s scared of you. Don’t be upset, everyone is.”

“Would you count yourself in that?” Sherlock says shortly, and because John has left the room to fetch coffee he adds “And I’ve told you to leave him out of it,” which makes Lestrade start towards him. Sherlock waves him away, cupping the pink phone closer.

“I don’t see why I should,” Moriarty laughs. “People love to talk about their pets.”

“Send me the clue,” Sherlock snaps.

“Oh, _touchy_. Is it a sensitive topic, Sherlock?” The words bounce, like fingers tapping on his skin. “It’s all right if he doesn’t love you the way you love him. I promise, you’ll always have me.”

“I’m quickly losing patience,” Sherlock says with forceful calm. “Should I hang up?”

“He’s afraid of you,” Moriarty says with another exaggerated sigh, “because he thinks you’re a hero. You’re not remotely human, my dear, and he knows that. He’s afraid,” and god, Sherlock hates that laugh, “of finding out what you are underneath.”

“The clue,” Sherlock says. Lestrade is at his side again, tense and impatient. _What’s taking so long_? He turns away again.

“We both know what that is, though, don’t we? Because,” a short giggle, “we’re the same, underneath. Better keep yourself wrapped up, Sherlock. You wouldn’t want him to run away.”

“Jim,” Sherlock growls, and the shocked intake of breath is almost worth it.

“Oh,” Moriarty breathes. “You don’t need to dress up for me, lover. I’ll take you as you are. But since you asked so _nicely_ —how long does it take to buy an espresso?”

Sherlock is hanging up the phone and hurling himself towards the door before the last word fades away.

“What, _what_?” Lestrade is shouting at him, and Sherlock has no patience for his stupidity now, already tearing down the hall. John was getting coffee. Two minutes ago, John popped down the hall to get coffee, and Sherlock let him, _stupid,_ just because they’re inside Scotland Yard he thought they were _safe_ —

He finds John fumbling with a broken coffee machine, and sees his eyes widen just before he tackles him to the ground.

He covers as much of John’s stunned body with his own as is possible, and then the coffee machine explodes.

*

He had thought the hardest thing he would do in his life would be to write the letter. He had been silently drafting it since before he left London, of course. From the moment Watson agreed to accompany him Holmes had been planning how to bid him goodbye. In the end, Moriarty makes it easy. He stands close beside him, a hand resting companionably against Holmes’ back, peering over his shoulder as he forces himself to move his pen calmly and unceasingly across the page.

 _My dear Watson_ , he begins, and Moriarty smiles.

 _I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of Moriarty’s presence,_ as the man chuckles softly into his ear. _Though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you._ It will not break him, though. It may make of him a wiser, sadder man than he had been before—Watson cares for him, will certainly grieve for him, Holmes does not doubt—but he will survive his grief. He has, after all, other people to live for, who will make his life worth living. How could Holmes be anything but grateful?

 _Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson,_ he writes, and only hopes his friend will understand. He dares not commit more to paper, and will not reveal more to Moriarty, no matter that they will die here. _Believe me to be, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours._ Watson will understand, of course. He always does.

“Do you imagine,” Moriarty says conversationally, “That I did not make my own arrangements for your legacy, as you have done for mine? My dear Mr. Holmes.” There is no questioning what—who—Moriarty means.

“I am certain you have,” Holmes replies. “I am also certain he is more than up to the task.”

Moriarty smiles a last time, his eyes empty. His hand snakes around Holmes’ waist in a parody of a lover’s embrace. “We will never know.”

Holmes had prepared for death. He prepared for the pain of leaving Watson. He prepared for that last great terror of not knowing, of never knowing. He is not prepared to live.

He stands for a long time looking down at the place where Moriarty disappeared. He allows himself one minute for self pity. He has outlived his only equal, has rid the world of a great poison, and in so doing destroyed his own career. What crime has he touched in the last ten years that has not borne James Moriarty’s fingerprints on it? For one hopeless second, the chasm appears closer and louder than it did before, the moss slicker, more treacherous. But he is a reasonable man, and cuts the thought out at its root. There is something left for him. Moriarty’s last threat. His last gift. Holmes takes it, gladly—there will be men coming after the last threads of his life soon—Watson, his ridiculous notes, his friends at the police force.

But in order to protect those remnants, he realizes slowly, they must be remnants. If he is dead, his enemies will relax, and bring themselves into the open. He must die here. It is the only answer. It will be the hardest thing he does in his life—but it will be worth it. He is not needed as he is. He will do some good before he fades away. He has made his goodbyes. He does not think he can make them twice.

When he is safely hidden in the ledge above the falls, he permits himself to wonder if this is madness. No, he decides. Only uselessness.

When Watson comes, he forces himself to listen to every choked breath that echoes up from the ledge. He listens to Watson calling out his name, increasingly frantic—he listens to the small, inarticulate sound he makes when he reads the letter, he listens to the furious crumpling of paper and to ragged breathing as it is carefully smoothed. He listens to his friend’s voice, dark with pain, as he says “my god,” over and over, and once, just once, “Sherlock.”

 _So this is how it feels,_ he thinks, staring at the rock above him, _to have your heart burned away._

*

When Sherlock wakes up, John is there. His forehead is bandaged, but he’s wearing a plaid shirt and his jacket, not a hospital gown, which means he wasn’t harmed. Good.

“Welcome back,” John says, with a tired smile. He’s speaking gently, the way he always does when Sherlock is hurt, despite the utter pointlessness of such an action.

“John,” Sherlock says, doing a quick scan of the room. Hospital. Private room. No windows, but the door is propped open. Cheap plastic lock. Not safe. Not that anywhere is. “You need to leave.”

John stares at him. “You— _what_ is wrong with you? Apart from three broken ribs and some pretty nasty burns.”

“Yes, and they mean I can’t leave yet, so you’ll have to,” Sherlock says, frustrated. “Here’s the first place he’ll look. Don’t go back to the flat, don't go to your sister's, go to Stamford's flat. Wait a week, and by then you should be fine—“

“Whoa, whoa,” John says. He has his bemused face on, the one he gets before he accuses Sherlock of doing something human incorrectly. “You’re talking about Moriarty?”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock snaps.

“And you want me to hide at _Mike Stamford’s_. For a week.” John says it like there’s something obvious and wrong with this plan, but Sherlock’s too tired to figure out what it is.

“I know you heard me, John.”

“Where will you be during this week, genius?” John asks, like he’s won some sort of point.

“Here,” Sherlock says, and stares at the wall. Stain against the wall from the humidifier. Three years old. “For the first few days, at least. After that, it’s better if you don’t know.”

There’s a pause. Sherlock doesn’t look away from the wall. “You’re serious.”

“Deathly.”

“God, Sherlock.” He sounds upset, which makes something unpleasant crawl in Sherlock’s stomach. Something besides the morphine. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Don’t worry, Mycroft will keep up my half of the rent, I’m sure,” Sherlock says with a tiny sneer.

“I don’t care about the _rent,_ ” John says incredulously. “When were you planning on coming back?”

“A year. Maybe more. However long it takes, I can’t predict everything.” He’s irritated, now, and beginning to feel how uncomfortable he is under the muting comfort of the drugs. “What does it matter?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then Sherlock’s right hand—the one lying on the bed—is gripped firmly in John’s. He is shocked enough to let his gaze slide over to John, who looks murderous. “How could you even think--? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear how you _deduced_ that I don’t give a shit about you.”

“You said—“ Sherlock begins, and the strange note in his voice sounds like uncertainty, but that’s impossible. It must be something else. John has not let go of his hand.

“Dammit, I know what I said. I also said I didn’t mean it, you prat.” John’s eyes are brown, and very warm. Almost as warm as his palm. “I’m your friend, all right?”

“That doesn’t change anything,” accuses Sherlock. “You’re ignoring the facts.”

“Which are?” His thumb strokes once against Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock is thankful for the unnatural relaxation the drugs have given to his body, because otherwise he would undoubtedly have shivered.

“Moriarty believes you to be my weakness,” he says, with only half the vitriol the sentence deserves. “He’s going to fulfill his promise, John—unless I leave, unless I take the game to him _first._ ”

“He’s manipulating you,” John says fiercely. “Can’t you see that? He wants you to be as miserable as he is, and you’re playing right into his hands.”

“I won’t be miserable,” Sherlock lies.

John squeezes his fingers. “You just saved my life, you idiot,” he says. “You can’t pretend you don’t like me now.”

Sherlock is tired. So tired, and his body feels muted and painful, and John is holding his hand. He will convince John he’s right. He will. Later. He turns his head away.

The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is John’s determined voice. “You’re not going anywhere.”

*

He remembers thinking he would never return.

When he unmasks himself in Watson’s study, he is ready for anger. For hatred, even.

Watson is a deadweight in his arms, heavier than he remembers. He’s put on weight, since Mary’s death—a habit not uncommon to men of their age and situation, but not one he’d ever thought his Watson would slip into. He eases his friend’s unconscious form into his chair, and resists tracing the new cares on his face. With fingers that shake only a little, he unbuttons Watson’s collar, and brings his flask of brandy to his slack lips, one hand slipping naturally behind his neck to support his head. He is warm. He forces himself to withdraw his hand when Watson’s eyes begin to flutter, but cannot quite make himself move away. When he opens his eyes, Holmes is bent close as a lover.

Watson does not smile, or push him away, as he rightfully should, but simply looks at him. He does not speak or move his head, and Holmes notes distantly that his eyes at least have not changed, warm and familiar and brown. There is no accusation in his gaze, no anger, only shock and a slow incredulous joy. That alone is too much for Holmes to bear, and his muscles tense as he prepares to straighten and step back.

In a flash Watson is on him, gripping hard at his forearms. His hands curl involuntarily around Watson’s arms in response. His chest aches, and Watson’s breath is uneven, his fingers painfully tight.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes begins, and has to stop, wetting his mouth again. “I owe you a thousand apologies.”

Watson’s laugh has everything of lunacy in it, but his hands clutching at Holmes’s arms mean more than anything has ever done.

Later, when Moran is dealt with, and Holmes has filled out a thousand tedious forms at Scotland Yard declaring himself among the living, and endured Mrs. Hudson’s tearful embraces, Watson takes him aside.

“We can retake our old rooms as soon as next week,” he says calmly. “I have already spoken to Mrs. Hudson.” The line of his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes tell him Watson does not intend to let him out of his sight.

Watson has not touched him since this morning, but Holmes has bruises forming on his arms. The ache in his chest is not relieved.

“Yes,” he says, and closes his eyes. “Yes.”

  
*

Sherlock does not kiss John until much later, after they come home from the hospital and John stops going on dates and Sherlock solves three cases that bring him that much closer to Moriarty, always Moriarty. John is not attacked again, and if that has anything to do with the text Sherlock grudgingly sent to Mycroft from his hospital bed, he ignores it.

When he does, it’s after they have both been shot at in the course of a speedboat chase across the Thames, and there is more adrenaline in his veins than blood. As soon as John shuts the door to their flat, Sherlock is backing him up against the door. He leans in and presses his mouth to John’s, every cell in his body screaming finally, when John pushes him away.

“No,” he says, voice gentle. “You don’t need to do that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes a step backward, burning with shame. “I apologize. I assumed the--nature of our relationship had changed. Clearly, I was wrong. If you would do me the favor of ignoring—“

“Wait, what are you talking about,” John says worriedly, reaching out. His hands grip Sherlock’s forearms.

Was he really going to make Sherlock say it? “I misjudged, John. I know we had a similar conversation before, but your recent behavior—“ the lack of a girlfriend, the casual touching, a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder at a crime scene, the side of his body pressed against Sherlock’s watching Jeremy Kyle on the sofa, the way Sherlock has grown accustomed to the feel of John’s hand in his—“lead me to believe that your feelings have changed. I assure you, I will not bring it up again.”

John’s mouth is hanging open. “You idiot,” he says finally, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “You blind, _stupid_ idiot.”

Sherlock struggles against John’s hands, then, trying to step away, but John will not let him, instead pulling him closer.

“Stop that,” John says impatiently. “And listen, this is important. I don’t know how you could have missed this, because I think I’ve been pretty obvious, but apparently even you need things spelled out sometimes.” He draws in a breath, and Sherlock could not look away from his eyes if he tried.

“I love you,” John says, all the teasing gone from his voice. “And I don’t care, about the sex, or any of it. I just—“

He does not hear the rest of it, because he is kissing John again, licking at the seam of his lips, and this time John shivers against him and kisses him back. Sherlock’s hands curl around John’s elbows and his neck is getting a crick in it from bending down so long, and John makes a small helpless noise into his mouth and Sherlock cannot bring him _close enough._

“I’m not asexual,” he says when they break for air. “That’s where you went wrong, isn’t it?” He thinks of the panic in John’s face when Sherlock pointed out his desire, of the last few quiet months and John’s determination and kindness and sheer well-intentioned _idiocy_ and he has to kiss him again, so he does. His whole body is shaking, and John fixes that by spinning them around and slamming Sherlock into the wall, and then he is kissing Sherlock’s jaw, and his neck, and Sherlock shudders and inhales sharply but the wall and John’s leg slid between his own keeps him upright.

John gasps laughter against his lips, one hand slipping lower, and Sherlock is too busy trying not to moan to be offended. “I hate you sometimes,” John says, and sucks a kiss just underneath Sherlock’s ear like he can’t help it. Like he can’t believe he’s allowed. “I hate you so much.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, and John’s other hand comes to rest over his heartbeat.

*

It isn’t until years later, when enough time has passed for them both to stop treating the bond between them like a fragile thing, after Watson finally gets furious with him and Holmes admits he was wrong and swears, over and over, not to do it again, after Holmes realizes that just because the master of crime is gone crime itself will never disappear from London.

It is the seventh anniversary of Mary’s death, and they are leaving the cemetery together. Watson is pale and tired, so Holmes walks close beside him, offering the silent support of his body.

“I did love her, Holmes,” Watson says.

“I know you did,” Holmes replies, because it is true. His friend has borne too much grief in his life. “I am sorry.”

They walk in silence a while longer, the sounds of London bright and grimy all around them.

“I do not regret it,” Watson says softly. “Not my marriage, or anything that came after. You understand me.”

Holmes brings a careful hand to Watson’s shoulder. A companionable gesture, but he can feel Watson’s muscles relax under his fingers. “Do you remember a conversation we had, Watson, about the dangers of emotion? Many years ago, now. I believe you published it into one of your memorandums.”

“Yes,” Watson says, brow furrowing. Holmes pauses, drawing them both back from the busy pavement, into the mouth of an alley. He belongs to London, yes, but so does London belong to him, and it will give him whatever he requires.

“I failed to consider something in my argument, then,” Holmes says. He leaves his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “Trust. Strong emotion is only dangerous when given where it is undeserved. Trust itself is not scientific, but it is impossible for even the most logical man to deny its power, or its truth.”

Watson smiles faintly. “You, admit you were wrong? I should check you for a fever.”

“Well, I was young,” Holmes says, and Watson laughs. “I made many mistakes, then.”

“If you did, I never noticed them,” Watson says.

“But in all seriousness, my dear Watson,” Holmes says quietly, “I have never trusted anyone in my life so much as you. It is stupid to continue to deny my emotion in the face of trust such as that.”

Watson draws in a sharp breath, and Holmes continues quickly, before his chance is lost. His friend has lost too much to not be reassured of what he has. “You must not doubt that I am yours.”

His friend is older than he was, with scars and cares and graying temples, but the soft smile he gives Holmes now is the same as it was all those years ago.

Later, back in Baker Street, Watson draws out the portrait of his wife and Holmes pretends not to see him weep, and even later, when Watson is wrapped safely in his arms, he pretends not to hear the whispers pressed against his forehead, except for one.

“Sherlock,” his Watson says. “My Sherlock.”

Holmes smiles.


End file.
